Finding Home

Dear You, What have you been up to?  Getting up in the morning Breathing as I still can Water from the tap Coffee Bath, Dress, Make-up Work.  Storytelling, hands in the air Questions out of nowhere Thank you's I want to be like you's What's the next story? Can it be later and not next week? Quiet, calm Then lunch My son tells me, "Change." The younger one holding his cookie Time to rest Both of them cover me with kisses, holding my face Afternoon rain Thunder as well What have I been up to? Not much. Dear You, This is what you have been doing: Breathing while you can Telling stories Writing them too No matter they are mundane Do not forget It is the small, The everyday acts the simple ones that make everything great. Dear You, Dear you.

The waves sounded like drum beats with sudden, angry movements of a woman's hand. Anger--one that has been kept in. Now it comes out in ragged gasps like buried sobs. Quiet then loud. Clapping one after another like dominoes on sand. "Ruin. Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation." Elizabeth Gilbert's words resound in my head. There is no moon. Only stars. Millions of them shone against the curtain of black. The wind blows from the mountains. The colored flags, pale and shadowed in the night danced in the wind.  My bare feet dug into the soft, grainy sand, finding its respite. And while my body can find rest, my mind wanders with the question, "What will I learn this time?" Miss Ailyn tells me, "Gibutang man ko sa Ginoo diri." God put me here. Tears in her eyes, heart on her sleeve, she has done wonders for the community here. There is so much more to the story than what the national TV show, G diaries has show

The things we need to do to live, to stop from dying. Are these two one and the same? Or are they separate things? Call it existential crisis or some form of it. These questions run through my head these days. Necessary to live or to stop from dying. I sip my cup of black, sit on our front steps, listen to the numerous birds singing. The sun is already high. But from where I sit, cool air still surrounds me. An epiphany appears or more of a question really: "Was it because your soul was dying?" There is only silence. Many moons ago my Yoga teacher told me to listen to the beat of my heart and I could not hear it. Why couldn't I hear it? I asked myself, frustrated, scared that I didn't have the ability to. What does this mean? There is the work that I do. There is the good work I do. And then there is what I love to do, born to do. The things I need to do to live. And the things I need to do to stop my soul from dying.  Identity.  I am my fathe